


desire is like a flood that drowns you every day

by writevale



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Carlos-centric, Cecil Is a Good Boyfriend, Episode: e055 The University of What It Is, Episode: e124 The Door Ajar, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Phantom ocean, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 12:09:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19317886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writevale/pseuds/writevale
Summary: 'I want to explain,' Carlos begins, 'Everything.' His throat feels tight.'You can tell me anything.' The sheets rustle as Cecil shuffles closer and presses a gentle kiss to Carlos' temple. Right in the spot he loves. And impatient Cecil, perfect Cecil, says: 'I'm always here. Take your time.'Carlos finds Dr Sylvia Kayali's contact details and knows it's time to tell his husband about his last Phantom Ocean and how Night Vale came to be home.





	desire is like a flood that drowns you every day

Carlos keeps a list of odd jobs that need doing around the house pinned to the cork board in the kitchen, sandwiched neatly between the Big Rico's Takeout menu (so old it still advertised wheat and wheat by-product containing pizza) and a fading picture of Cecil's bowling team (the dark figures looming behind Old woman Josie barely visible at first glance). Days off are rare, but several of the items on the list have been ticked off over the past months and, today, Carlos is hoping to get started on one of the bigger jobs: sorting through Cecil's papers. 

 

'It's only fair, babe.' He says to his husband's prone form on the sofa, 'If you've made me have a research paper amnesty, we should clear out your shit too.' Cecil fixes him with an amused look beneath a pale, quirked eyebrow. 

'By "we", you mean "you", right, hon?' 

 

******

Cecil keeps his spare papers - things of importance, of sentimental value or things that reappear even after he’s thrown them away - in the bottom drawer of the study. Carlos struggles to get it open, which he thinks is probably a bad sign. He doesn't have the upper body strength to lift the drawer onto the large desk but, depositing the papers on the floor with a dull thud, he muses that he does, at least, have a plan. 

 

Certificates go in one pile. Cecil has kept all his scouting awards and Carlos places the rumpled sheets down in a pile with care, even if some of the badge titles are  _incredibly_ concerning. Photos go in another. Important documents, distinguishable by the blood-red glyphs that appear to shimmer on the thick parchment, are placed delicately in a box of their own. There are letters, performance reviews, and old annotated copies of Cecil's slashfics. 

 

Carlos fishes into the drawer and pulls out a small rectangular card. His breath comes as a sharp gasp, as though he has been swiftly punched in the gut, as he takes in the familiar green logo, the name of the institution it represents and, worse, worst of all, the name and number scrawled on the back of the card. 

 

_Dr. Sylvia Kayali._

 

He is on his feet in an instant. 'Cecil?' The twirling movement of his lab coat destroys several of his neatly curated piles but he hardly notices. 'Cecil!'

 

******

 

'Baby?' 

 

Cecil's whispered question hangs in the air above the kitchen table, haunting. They sit facing each other, the University business card flat on the table in front of them. Carlos doesn't want to look at it but finds his eyes drawn to the forest green 'UWII' between them. It catches the desert sun from through the window like an accusation. He can't look at Cecil right now, see the worry etched into the sharp lines of his face.

 

Cecil had explained exactly what happened for him to come into possession of the card. His expression and voice had been fraught. In any other situation Carlos would give into the compulsion to taken Cecil's pale hands into his own and press a comforting kiss to the smooth skin of his wrists.

 

Instead, Carlos tries not to vomit as he contemplates the space between what his husband knows, and what Carlos hoped he never would.

 

 

****** 

 

It is yet to be scientifically proven, but Carlos is sure that most of one person's attraction to another has very little to do with their physical attributes.

 

The Professor raps on the whiteboard with the end of a marker pen, the sound shocking in the otherwise silent classroom. Carlos furrows his brow at the list of formulae and bites back a yawn. This is the nth day in a row that he has stayed in late to work on this particular problem with the Professor (where n = a number too small to be a real problem but large enough to piss off the guy that Carlos is seeing) and his lack of sleep is starting to catch up with him. The man is a genius and Carlos feels dizzy with privilege to be invited to watch him work. Carlos is under no illusions that his role in this situation is to be nothing more than a reflective surface for the professor to grunt ideas at but he's starting to crave the evenings they spent together, poring over data, creeping closer to proving himself as a worthy colleague and -

 

\- Carlos blinks suddenly. Stands as though in a trance.

 

'Please, may I?' He is acutely aware of the pitch of his voice. The Professor hands him the pen wordlessly although his eyes betray his lack of expectation. The pen squeaks slightly on the board and Carlos is distantly amused at the thought that the sound is his own voice, speaking through it. The equation he writes is messy - beautiful - but it works. He pauses, the tip of the pen still resting on the board. One of the Professor's large hands comes to wrap around his outstretched wrist. Vice-like. Carlos feels himself flush pink and hopes that the classroom light is too dim for it to be noticeable against his tanned skin.

'Well,' His voice is as heavy as the hand encircling Carlos' wrist, 'Not just a pretty face, are we?'

 

******

 

They leave the business card on the kitchen table but still, as they lay side-by-side in bed, there's something between them. Carlos cannot remember a single night since returning from the Desert Otherworld that he didn't fall asleep with Cecil stubbornly wrapped around him and the absence of his husband's clinging limbs hurts like Hell.

 

He feels the weight of the decision he has been making all day force itself up through his throat to balance on the tip of tongue. He breathes.

'Cecil.' He whispers into the darkness. Cecil is only pretending to be asleep, and badly at that, and the mattress shifts as the long-limbed radio host turns on his side to watch Carlos' face. He fumbles in the dark and catches one of Cecil's hands, brushing his lips against his fingers and lowering their clasped hands to rest on his chest. 'I love you.'

'I love you _so_ much.' Cecil's voice is like silk and Carlos feels the hairs on his arms stand up as Cecil squeezes his fingers to underline the point.

'I want to explain,' Carlos begins, 'Everything.' His throat feels tight. He can feel the part of Cecil that wants to tell him that it's fine, that he doesn't have to say anything, warring with the man's insatiable curiosity - the part of him that demanded a couple’s therapist make Carlos talk about the Phantom Ocean. He feels nauseous.

'You can tell me anything.' The sheets rustle as Cecil shuffles closer and presses a gentle kiss to Carlos' temple. Right in the spot he loves. And impatient Cecil, perfect Cecil, says: 'I'm always here. Take your time.'

 

******

 

They stand on the creaking floorboards. Carlos' hair is growing longer now and it blows around his face as a dark halo in the furious wind that howls through the smashed window. On the floor, his new occult activity monitor - his _baby_ \- whistles and sputters out reams of paper. He gathers up each sheet quickly before the wind can snatch it away and presents the list of numbers to the Professor. Even the usually stoic academic can't fight a smile.

 

Not for the first time, it occurs to Carlos that the Professor is fairly attractive when he smiles.

 

'This is real data!' He shouts over the wind and the Professor nods. There is a splintering crack as one of the doors flies from its hinges, narrowly missing the scientists and, more importantly, the machine coughing away on the floor.

'We need to get out of here.' The Professor says darkly. He grabs the machine with one hand and, before he has chance to react, Carlos finds himself being dragged out of the house by the arm. The Professor's grip is tight enough for Carlos to dimly wonder if it will bruise. He doesn't examine that thought too closely.

 

There is no wind on the street.

The Professor drops Carlos' arm and spins to look him straight in the face. His dark eyes flash in the afternoon sun as he takes the stack of paper from Carlos' hands and waves it in front of him. Carlos finds himself laughing, balancing on the knife-edge of hysteria.

'We need to celebrate.'

 

Carlos didn't know what to expect from a celebration with his academic supervisor. He didn't exactly expect it to be a cheap motel room and a crate of Budweiser. The day's success had been a culmination of long nights in the laboratory with no time to socialise and, as a result, Carlos finds himself getting incredibly drunk incredibly quickly. He knows he should text someone, knows there is someone he _should_ text. But no-one he can think of, especially not David the English Major, would understand exactly how important his data is and he is happy in the warm, drunken bubble he has built around himself.

 

When the Professor kisses him, breath foul from cheap beer and motel burritos, Carlos kisses back.

 

******

 

For a brief minute, Cecil Palmer is just another face in the queue of people waiting to shout 'Interloper' in the face of Night Vale's newest residents. Then, he's  _not_. 

 

Carlos makes a valiant effort to concentrate on the tasks at hand. The deeply disturbing tasks he needs to perform to keep himself and his team safe in this paranormal playground. Then he finds himself caught like a moth to the flame underneath the red blinking light of the Night Vale Community Radio tower. 

 

_You are here to understand just what is going on here_ , Carlos tells himself firmly as he is bustled along a dark corridor behind a smirking intern. Carlos doesn't get the joke.  _Not to meet a cute guy with a voice like-_ Professor's voice, unbidden, creeps into his mind.  _Slut_. His stomach turns. 

 

They pass a dark door, condensation beading on the wood as though the room itself was sweating. Carlos swears he hears a slithering like the writhing of a mass of snakes come from behind it. Before Carlos can ask, the intern shoves him into the recording booth rather unceremoniously. To say that Cecil's face lights up would be to say that it's hot out in the Sand Wastes. There's something tight squeezing at Carlos' chest, like his heart is breaking, imploding. Cecil is talking into the microphone, voice like an unbroken, deep body of water. Voice betraying no hint of the small smile playing at the edges of mouth. Dimly, Carlos wishes he could take a blood sample right now, to determine the chemical make-up of a person's blood the exact second they fall in love. 

 

'Please, stay for an interview?' Cecil Palmer bargains over the angry bleating of the occult activity monitor, looking up at Carlos underneath almost-white eyelashes. Carlos observes that the other man's pupils are dilated and counters that he has no previous data about the average diameter of Mr Palmer's pupils and therefore cannot possibly draw any conclusions from the available data. 

'You should really evacuate this place.' Carlos says, pointing emphatically at the dial on his machine. _I am absolutely unprepared to be around you_ , he doesn't say. 

 

 

******

 

Sometimes Carlos thinks he can taste Cecil's words when he speaks. Right now, Cecil's silence is so thick he could bite into it. 

 

'I thought that was maybe going to be it,' Carlos breathes a ragged breath, 'A careless mistake on his part, I guess, and I much prefer to make accurate predictions based on available data, but I guess I liked it at the time.' He thinks back to that morning after in the motel. The Professor had talked of nothing but the data all the way back to the University campus. Carlos had hidden his bruises under a tattered sweater and sat hugging his knees for the long drive back. 'But, it became kind of a  _thing_.' 

'A  _thing_?' Cecil's voice is flat and careful but, even in the darkness, Carlos can tell he is pulling the face he pulls when Steve Carlsberg hugs him for any length of time. 

'I don't think it would have happened if not for the fact that there was a huge staff changeover in the institution at the time. A new Head of the University was appointed and everyone was so busy focusing on keeping their job to pay attention to what the Head of Science was doing in his office after hours. Especially when his research output was  _so good_.' Carlos doesn't catch the envy and something a little like lust in his statement until it's left his lips. He coughs. 'The new Head of the University was-' 

'Dr Sylvia Kayali.' Cecil finishes for him. 

'Yes.' Her name is like a piece of grit in Carlos' mouth that still, years later, he has not managed to smooth into a pearl. 'Dr Sylvia Kayali.' Cecil leans forward to brush his lips against Carlos' shoulder. Carlos feels a pressure in his eyes and squeezes them shut tightly, only to be greeted with the image of her, standing with one hand resting on the Professor's large desk - the desk where- 'Oh God, Cecil. I was so  _stupid_.' 

'It escalated.' 

Carlos nods, 'He got me a job.' 

 

******

 

First and foremost, Carlos' passion is for scientific research. He suspects it always will be. 

However, teaching others about science is an excellent way to fill the hours between experiments and it means he no longer has to work a bar job and a paper round to fund his post-doc. He is lucky, he supposes, to have had the Professor to advocate for him so strongly. 

 

The lecture hall falls silent as Carlos turns to wipe the board clean. He is so consumed in consideration of a recent case report about the existence of Angels that he doesn't hear the Professor approach. 

 

'Well, if it isn't everyone's favourite lecturer.' 

Carlos spins suddenly to find the Professor inches behind him. The sneer behind the older man's words has become a familiar lesion, malignant and oozing and something Carlos knows he should get checked out. But doesn't. 'How can I help you?' He asks. When he remembers this moment in the years to come, there is not a trace of sexual innuendo in his cadence. The Professor smiles, all teeth. 

'Oh, I can think of a few ways a dirty boy like you might be able to help.' He crowds forwards suddenly, trapping Carlos between his large frame and the half-cleaned whiteboard. He bites at Carlos' mouth, grabs his hips, and there is a split second where the young scientist is completely lost in it. 

 

He comes to himself with a muffled yell, helplessly trying to push the Professor away. 

'We're in a  _lecture theatre.'_ He hisses, frantic. 'Anyone could come in.' 

The Professor's hand is suddenly tight around his throat and -  _fuck -_ they've done this before but Carlos knows that this is different. That there's something wrong. 'You fucking listen to me,' The Professor snarls, spittle landing on Carlos' face and hair. 'There is nowhere in this University or on this fucking Earth that I can't have your desperate little body whenever I want.' His free hand travels south and Carlos twists in his tight grip, panting and mind racing. 

 

There is a loud bang as someone throws open the door to the lecture theatre. The Professor has enough time to drop Carlos and jump away before the figure of a student lopes into view. Carlos fights the urge to cover his neck.

'I expect you in my office at 8am tomorrow morning.' The Professors says briskly at the same time as the intruder calls:

'Sorry! Forgot my headphones!'

 

_Fuck_ , Carlos thinks, _fuck_.

 

******

 

_Fuck_ , Carlos thinks, _fuck_.

 

He hasn't told anyone, least of all his boyfriend, but he has a strong hypothesis that how it feels to kiss Cecil Palmer is the best discovery he has made in Night Vale so far. Cecil makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat as Carlos increases the pressure between their lips together. His perfect hair is stuck out at all angles, a testament to where Cecil's desperate hands had been moments before.

 

This is not the first time.

 

Cecil's hands trace an indelicate path along the lapels of Carlos' lab coat, down his soft abdomen, down. And even though Carlos has literally been thinking about this moment throughout their entire date, eyes locked on Cecil's lips as he ate his slice of pie at the Moonlite All Night and then Carlos' leftovers, there is still a flicker of anxiety in the pit of Carlos' stomach. After thorough analysis of his previous reactions to Cecil's sexual advances, he has concluded that he is more scared of being scared, worried that something might go wrong than anything actually being wrong. He does not want to fuck it up.

 

Cecil breaks the kiss to whisper, 'You're perfect.' and Carlos' chest implodes, a physiologically impossible feat that somehow keeps happening anyway. Carlos can't find the right words, still caught up in the butterflies in this stomach. He presses his forehead to Cecil's and stares into his eyes. His pupils, he observes, are _definitely_ dilated.

'Let's - uh- can we go slow?' He says. Something like a smirk, but far too delighted, curls onto Cecil's lips.

'Sure.' Steady hands pause on Carlos' waist. 'What do you want?'

 

Carlos is sure he's never been asked.

 

******

 

'Look,' Dr Sylvia Kayali is a vision in a silk blouse, a vibrant green against her brown skin, pencil skirt and tailored jacket. Carlos wishes she'd sit down. 'Why don't you tell me what happened on the night of the,' She peers down at the Professor's large oak desk at Carlos' testimony, '20th June.' 

The office feels entirely too small, as though the room itself was squeezing at Carlos' ribs, threatening to snap them. He is unsure why they had to do this  _here_. 

'I - um, we - we were investigating -'

A humourless smile touches the edges of the Dr's lips. 'The Phantom Ocean.'

'Yes.' The word comes out in a long hiss, like a stream of salt water from Carlos' lips. 

 

******   
  


There is a piercing shriek as another huge shadow blocks out the sun. The oversized flying reptiles circle over the town, narrowly missing helicopters of all colours. Below their feet, tectonic plates scream raptures of seismic activity. The ground does not shake. There is a house in the Desert Creek Housing Development that does not exist - even though it's  _right there_ when you look at it. There is a Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in every home in Night Vale. 

 

Carlos permits himself to listen to the radio every evening and think solely of Cecil Palmer for exactly 15 minutes afterwards. 

 

Carlos does a lot of thinking. He thinks about how he came to be here. Night Vale is more scientifically fulfilling than his wildest dreams could have anticipated.

 

_Fuck you_ , he thinks in the general direction of, but not at, the diving pteranodons. _Fuck you._

 

******

 

'Carlos,' Cecil breathes into the dark gap between their faces, 'Baby, that's . . . _Horrific_.'

Carlos almost laughs at the thought of Cecil, resident of Night Vale for a scarily indeterminate amount of time, finding anything horrific. 'It wasn't all bad.' He protests, hating himself for still believing it. Cecil makes a tiny incredulous noise. 'No, really. The science was great, I think at one point we were putting out a new paper every month - that's a lot, babe.'

'Okay, but-?'

'Dr Kayali was running the University like a business and most academics hated it, but it also meant that the people who were achieving the best research output - us, basically - suddenly had a lot more money with which to do the research. Everything I did at that place laid the groundwork for what I have been able to do here, Cecil.' Carlos' voice has a warning note in it. Everyone is attached to their Institution of Higher Education in ways they cannot fully understand. 'The _thing_ was just something that I had to deal with in order to keep doing the science.' Carlos smiles, eyes rueful. 'Kinda like cutting your finger to open a bloodstone door.' He feels rather than sees Cecil's body go tense. 'Okay, maybe not?' Cecil says nothing. 'Also, there was talk of more departmental shifts. I don't like to boast, but there was actual qualitative data from student opinion surveys that my teaching was very popular - enrolment in science classes was up by a significant factor and -'

'They were going to give you the top job.'

Carlos breathes, 'They were definitely considering it.'

 

******  
 

The rain lashes against the windscreen as they drive out of town, almost too heavy for the squeaking windscreen wipers to keep up. In the passenger seat, Carlos taps delicately at the keys of his laptop, tweaking the code they were going to be trialling later that afternoon in their newest research location.

The Professor's mood has turned as tempestuous as the weather. He keeps turning the radio off and on again, swearing as the static overwhelms any attempt at a clean transmission.

'If they offer you this job-' The Professor begins and Carlos bites his cheek to keep from sighing.

'They're not going to offer me your job.' He says tersely, wishing he could just lose himself in the code. Wishing he were anywhere else but in this car in the rain with the Professor.

'If they do,' He repeats, louder, 'What are you going to say?' Carlos doesn't hide his sigh this time. Time spent enduring the Professor's company, and his  _company_ , has given Carlos a unique perspective on the inner workings of the man he once idolised. What once seemed to be glittering genius seems to have faded into the shaky greed of a dragon with a hoard that has outgrown him, desperate to cling onto every last gold coin.

'Thanks, but no thanks.'

The Professor is silent for 43 seconds.

 

The sound of the rain on the windscreen and the rumble of the engine is interrupted by the slow creak of a zipper being pulled down. Carlos stares resolutely at his code. _Thanks, but no thanks_.

 

******

 

Carlos is naked but for his socks, which were a gift from Old Woman Josie and have embroidered microscopes on the ankles, and spread out across the too-small desk in their study. His husband had done everything shy of actually scratching at the door until Carlos had stopped working and let him in. The minutes in between then and this moment have taken on a blurry, hot glow in Carlos' memory but, now, Cecil is sliding into him slowly, folding himself forwards to kiss the smooth skin between Carlos' shoulder blades.

 

Carlos manages a weak, strangled sound and feels the rumble of Cecil's chuckle. Long fingers twist into longer hair, grey at the temples, somehow pulling at the same time as pushing Carlos' face against the smooth wood of the desk beneath him. It feels good. It feels _so_ good that Carlos, not blessed with his husband’s mastery of words, could not even begin to describe-

 

He doesn't know what sets him off. Perhaps it's the angle of the sun through the barely closed blinds, or the unhappy hum of the abandoned laptop, the hand on his head, or Cecil's breathing pattern. The fact they're fucking on a desk.

 

He fights desperately to stay in the present. But the more he fights it, the more it drowns him. Cecil's lips brush against the back of Carlos' neck and a hand slides round the curve of Carlos' waist, towards his groin. It comes to rest on the very obvious evidence of Carlos' lack of enjoyment and everything stops.

 

_Shit_.

 

'Uhhhm,' Cecil's voice is loud in his ear, 'Babe, are you okay?' He moves to slide out but Carlos stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder. If they stop, Cecil will want to know _why_. And, until that moment, it had felt so good.

'Yeah,' He lies, squeezing his eyes shut and smoothing his hand along the length of his husband's arm. 'Yeah, I'm fine. Just-' He pushes upwards onto his knees and Cecil straightens to accommodate for the change. 'Ah!' The change in angle is _something_.

'Did I hurt you?' Cecil's voice is dripping with concern even as Carlos shakes his head, cheeks burning in anticipation of what he is about to ask.

'No, baby, honestly.' A pause. 'Can you just - _talk_ to me.'

'Oh.'

'Uhuh.'

'My perfect Carlos,' Cecil whispers, breath brushing Carlos' ear. He shivers. 'How I have been aching for you all day. Sitting in my booth thinking of you like this. _Please_ -' Cecil's voice is desperate, almost a whine as he starts to rock his hips just slightly. 'Let me be good for you.' Carlos exhales shakily. It's working. Deep down, he knows that this is more performance than Cecil genuinely losing himself. Though, that part soon follows.

 

'I love you.'

'I _love_ you.'

 

******  
 

This is the last time they're going to do this. Carlos decided that shortly after getting out of the car. Half-decision, half-realisation. The drive had been thick with tension. Carlos had nothing to say to the Professor. The Professor had nothing to say to Carlos.

 

There is an entire body of salt water in the middle of the forest. Deep enough that the majority of the treeline has been submerged under dark waves. It wasn't there yesterday. There has been no rainfall in this area for 12 days. Carlos surveys the area and hopes that all the animals made it out alive. Though God knows where they would go.

 

There is something incredibly freeing in the knowledge that this is the last time that he and the Professor will be out in the field together, niche interests forcing Carlos into the Professor's orbit. The whispers in the science faculty about upcoming departmental shifts have reached a fever pitch and, for the first time, Carlos can see the faint glimmer of an escape. He paces the edge of what they are dubbing the 'Phantom Ocean', taking water samples every 20 metres and pausing frequently to look for disturbances in the peaty Earth beneath his feet.

 

The Professor has his hypotheses about the origin of the Ocean, Carlos has read the draft of the grant application. The young scientist has his own theories. And he's willing to pursue them independently, potentially as the new Head of Science at the University of What It Is.

 

Distracted by his musings, Carlos yelps as his foot lands in something gelatinous with a wet squelch. Carlos makes a sound that is more exclamation mark than human speech and fumbles in the pockets of his coat for nitrile gloves. The foreign material is transparent, slimy without sticking to Carlos' shoe or gloves, as though it is disgusted at being touched. Carlos does what all good scientists should do. He pokes it.

 

He is reaching into another large pocket for a sample collection tube when he is startled out of his scientific observations by an angry shout. The professor appears from the trees, marching so fast in Carlos' direction that it's almost a run, cheeks ruddy and eyes livid. Carlos opens his mouth to ask what the problem is but the Professor is on him, fist colliding with Carlos' gut, knocking the question out of his lungs. Carlos slips on the jelly - _ectoplasm? -_ under his foot and topples backwards, head and shoulders landing into the dark water with a quiet splash. Beneath the waves is a cliff's edge and, though Carlos scrambles desperately, he can find no purchase from which to push himself out of the water.

 

His tactic of hiding in the science lab during swimming lessons at High School is not serving him well now.

 

The Professor is still shouting at him but Carlos' ears and mouth are suddenly full of salty water and it's only when the Professor crouches, fist twisting into the UWII logo on Carlos' shirt, to lift him half out of the water, that he can make out what his is saying.

'You think you can replace _me_? A stupid little slut like you?' The Professor interrupts Carlos' coughing and spluttering with a sharp slap. 'You forget, Carlos, that you're only here because I took pity on you.'

'They're giving me the job?' He asks, dumbly, between rattling breaths. The Professor's eyes glaze over in a way Carlos has seen before and he freezes like a deer in the headlights of a truck. 'No.' He says as the Professor moves to shift more weight on top of Carlos. He tries to wriggle out of his grasp but there is only water underneath him, the Professor's hand the only thing keeping him from slipping beneath the surface. The Professor bares his teeth.

'Don't be stupid.' He growls, 'I could leave you here and drive back to my beautiful home and my beautiful wife and no-one would come looking for you.' Carlos feels fat, angry tears start to well. He has no idea why it has never occurred to him that the Professor could kill him. 'Can you swim, Carlos?' He begins to loosen his grip in Carlos’ shirt and the smaller man has to grip onto the Professor, knuckles white. Even as the Professor shifts to tear at clothing, to angle Carlos’ hips. Carlos has never heard a crueller laugh. ‘Can you swim?’

'Don't do this.' Carlos' whispered plea is answer enough.

 

******

 

'This,' Dr Kayali taps Carlos' report with a manicured finger, 'Is a rape allegation.' The word ricochets around the room like a bullet. 'Why did you not go to the Police?'

'Dr Kayali,' He looks at her, a young, gay, Latino man in the office of his wealthy, married, white abuser. 'Why would I waste my time?'

She sighs and Carlos suspects this is the first thing he has said that she truly understands. Finally, she sits down. 'This is a very difficult situation for the University-'

'I know you can't give me the job.' Carlos interrupts. The last possibility of the life he had come to desire eroded away as he dropped the report in front of Dr Sylvia Kayali earlier that week. For the first time, her tight smile contains a touch of regret.

'Neither you nor the accused are currently suitable candidates for the role.' A small cough. 'The Professor has decided to retire.' She folds her hands together and lets that news sink in before continuing, 'Carlos, you are one of the brightest minds to pass through this institution-' For a single, queasy second, Carlos thinks she is going to torture him with the same question he has been asking himself each night since the incident. _How could you let this happen?_ 'I would hate to see your talent go to waste.'

Carlos blinks, 'What do you mean?'

'I have an offer for you.'

 

******

 

Carlos doesn't realise how long he has been waiting for the report of a Phantom Ocean in Night Vale until the day it happens. There is only one person who is going to help him survive this. He silences his phone, gets in the car, and drives to the NVCR station.

 

He fully intends to hide out in the recording booth all afternoon, letting Cecil's voice settle around him like a blanket as he makes a pyramid out of the three types of beans on his plate, absolutely not thinking about the last Phantom Ocean he encountered. Cecil is surprised to see him but, much to the intern's obvious discomfort, showcases just how welcome the surprise is the minute the weather starts playing through the medium of a kiss that lasts just a bit too long.

 

Then Mark rings.

 

Carlos sits in the car wash, listening to Cecil panic on the radio, listening to his own panicked thoughts. He regrets putting extra salt on his salad. The taste has stuck to his tongue and reminds him of being held in a briny place, certain he is going to be snatched away by a monster below even if he does escape the one above him. He wants to get out of the car and be sick but the sign as he drove in had reminded him that the rollers have a taste for flesh and so to keep all body parts in the vehicle at all times.

 

_Maybe it’s all in my subconscious. Maybe if things are too good for too long, and you think about it too hard, it can start to make you nervous. And then, maybe you can’t take the pressure of waiting for things to wrong, and you start inventing problems just so you can have control over them. But you have to think about whatever can go wrong. Otherwise, you’re lazily enjoying a sunrise and dreaming of free hotcakes, and suddenly you’re drowning in a waterless parking lot before you even know what hit you._

 

For the first time since coming to Night Vale, Carlos switches off the radio before the end of Cecil's show.

 

******

 

Carlos doesn't know how long he has been talking for but all he wants now he's finished is to pull Cecil close, breathe in the scent of him and fall asleep safe in the knowledge that nothing has changed between them. Cecil is quiet in the way he only is when he is fiercely contemplative.

 

They are interrupted by a smooth and ancient female voice from under the bed.

'What an asshole.'

'Can't we just have _one minute_?!' Cecil exclaims. There is a sigh like the rustling of Autumn leaves over a grave.

'Fiiine. But I am going to steal your toenail clippings from the bin and grind them into your toothpaste.' Carlos hopes that the Faceless Old Woman doesn't know about the new toothpaste he bought yesterday that’s still in the bag in the kitchen. He suspects she does.

 

'Carlos, I am so _sorry_.'

'Ceec-'

'No, oh God, I tried to force you to talk about this in front of a _stranger_. I fixated about this live on the radio. I-' He sits up. Carlos can just make out the hunch in his shoulders and runs his hand along the smooth curve of his spine. 'You must have hated me.'

Carlos shuffles upwards and presses a kiss to a bare shoulder. 'Never. Not for a second.' He rests his chin on the spot he just kissed. 'I just didn't want you to think that I was, y'know… used-'

'Don't finish that sentence.' Cecil almost growls, possessive rather than aggressive. It makes Carlos' toes curl.

'Make me.'

 

They hold onto each other's faces once the kiss is broken. Cecil apparently can't resist sliding his fingers into Carlos' hair. That is the opposite of a problem. 

'I can't believe she didn't stand up for you.'

'Dr Kayali?' Cecil nods and Carlos strokes his high cheekbones with his thumbs. 'Coming here was the best thing that happened to me. The science is incredible. _You_ ,' He lets his thumbs run over Cecil's kiss-softened lips, 'Are incredible.'

'In that order?' Cecil rumbles and Carlos laughs for the first time that evening. It's the sound that the sun should make when it rises. He pulls Cecil down to lie face to face, limbs twisted together, and stifles a yawn.

'Seriously, though, even though you didn't know it at the time, you have been the most supportive and wonderful boyfriend and husband and best friend.' Carlos buries his face in Cecil's neck and breathes, 'I don't know how I would have begun to heal without you.' He waits for Cecil to say something. He keeps waiting. 'Oh my God, baby, have I actually shut you up?'

'That's. . .' Cecil gets stuck on the s, hissing like a deflating tire. ' _Neat_.'

 

******

 

Carlos tries not to overthink it. He picks up his phone and dials the number on the shiny green business card. It rings three times before it's answered.

'Hello?' A voice croaks down the line. The owner sounds too old to be the person Carlos is intending to reach. And. . .  yet.

'Hello. Is this Dr Kayali of the University of What It Is?'

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my first foray into WTNV fanfiction and the first complete fic I have written in four years.   
> The title was from James Vincent McMorrow's song Glad It's Raining - which you should definitely check out if you don't already know it. 
> 
> Proverb: Money makes the world go round. But, kudos makes me happier.


End file.
